


Of Coffee Cups and Croissants

by MiniOranges



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Coffee, Crushes, Cute, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27469360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniOranges/pseuds/MiniOranges
Summary: T’Challa keeps finding himself in the most awkward of situations. But there are a few exceptions.
Relationships: Erik Killmonger/T'Challa
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	Of Coffee Cups and Croissants

T’Challa suspects it’s going to be a bad day.

Okay, maybe he’s being a tad too pessimistic. But the days preceding this devastating situation should’ve given enough retrospect already.

It’s been three weeks since his coffee machine broke. The glorious thing assembled by his little sister as a birthday present refused to make the rich, exotic Black Ivory coffee, its beans shipped only from the fine harvests of northern Thailand, that T’Challa so considerably craves.

He has numerous credentials to his name, and is set to inherit the family business. Yet, he never stopped to think of the coffee machine’s incompatibility with his apartment’s electrical services. Shuri is ahead of her time, as always.

Now this wouldn’t have been a problem. The apartment building is lavish in its ways, decent enough to have a small kitchen area downstairs for the tenants to enjoy a cup or two. It’s not even about the pre-made coffee, really. Rather there’s too many people to see, and too many conversations to start given the early morning. Particularly with his neighbor, Nakia.

Don’t get it twisted. T’Challa _adores_ Nakia, all positivity and strong-will. But she keeps settinghim up with her classmate; a certain Erik Stevens. Nakia seems to be at the area every time T’Challa does so, just to vouch for a possible love affair apparently.

"He’s in my International Relations class. We don’t always see eye to eye but similar ideologies exist nonetheless. I thought you’d get along." She comments after sipping from her cup.

T’Challa replies with a side-glance and a light smile, waiting for his own fill to heat-up. "You know, you don’t need to do this for me. I really cannot find the time for _that_ yet."

Their respective universities were implicit rivals; comprising the country’s top two. Just a few blocks away, but the hostility is there. Also, he does not at all know why Nakia insists on finding him a man in the first place.

For one, T’Challa’s doesn’t trust easily. He’d just moved from Wakanda Homes, an exclusive, upper-middle class village a few miles east from the apartment. Growing up around a very particular set of people made it difficult for him to assimilate to this new environment. He likes to keep to himself a lot too, matter-of-fact.

"I just think you need to get laid." Nakia quips back with a smirk, sauntering out the room immediately.

And because of that, T’Challa opted to having his coffee at a noteworthy bakery by the street’s corner the next time—as he usually does. He _could_ wake-up a few extra minutes earlier than wanted just to walk the distance and make it to class diligently afterwards. He could even endure the standard brew served by the store. Only if it means having his cup in peace.

Besides, T’Challa got to see _him_ along the way.

In his first couple of weeks frequenting the bakery, following the intermittent decision to explore some local sites and get himself acquainted, T’Challa always happened to stumble upon the same man.

He was tall, about T’Challa’s height, sharp eyes and thick lips. His hair, dreadlocks styled to the side, and sometimes braided on Tuesdays, with a short beard decorating his chin. Occasionally, he’d smile at the cashier and defining dimples would sprout. He’d be dressed so coolly too; denim jacket and round-rimmed glasses. It’s not T’Challa’s personal style but _ugh_. And don’t even get him started on the man’s body. It should be considered a sin, existing like that.

He’d arrive just mere moments after T’Challa, ordering either a simple sourdough or buttered croissant. Not that he memorized this, that would be weird (he memorized this).

Everyday T’Challa would sit at the bistro table furthest from the door, waiting for the mystery man. He’d look up from his study-notes? Thomas Mofolo’s 'Chaka'? The daily paper? Just whatever he can hold while checking Mr. Sexy out. He even got caught one time, getting all flushed and embarrassed after. Was T’Challa too obvious at this point? Oh no.

On one memorable occasion, and quite puzzling, Mr. Sexy sat on the other table _across_ him, facing T’Challa. Huh, he always left after a purchase, this was new. Still, T’Challa didn’t dare glance his way, adamantly trying to understand his notes on Organizational Leadership and Resource Management while continuously sipping from his cup as a means of distraction.

This little crush of his surely made his taste buds grow accustomed to normal coffee. The bakery better sponsor him or something. To be frank anyway, he’d been having coffee at the store because of _him_ , avoiding Nakia was just the reason T’Challa wanted to believe. It’s a bakery for Bast’s sake, and he hasn’t even tasted an ounce of wheat from the place.

He’d leave the store with a grumbling stomach, entirely reminded of missing breakfast yet again. His mother’s scolding would ring in his head. _The first meal of the day is immensely important, my dear son_. T’Challa can only imagine how she’d react upon finding out the cause.

* * *

"For the last time brother, are we going to that bakery _again?_ For all I know you just want to see dreads and muscles guy—"

"Shhh! Shuri…" T’Challa reprimands the girl softly for the nth time now, looking around the apartment lobby to see if anyone heard. The city was relatively small, anyone could possibly know anyone. He didn’t want his silly wee fantasies spreading around.

Shuri was currently in town, stopping to visit just as she always does once in a while. Either it’s to promote a science fair project, or simply review probable universities to enroll in soon, T’Challa was constantly there to support her. Getting accepted wasn’t a problem, not with how advanced she is. That meant brother only had to worry about her babbling mouth.

"I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me fix the coffee machine because of him and that store, 'Bread & Breakfast' was it?" Shuri huffs, quieter this time.

"You do know how mama feels about this…" He says with a wary look, slowly smirking.

The girl squints in reply, offering a gasp after realizing later on. "Wow, so daring brother. I thought you’d be a hopeless romantic until the end of time."

T’Challa rolls his eyes. "Let’s just go."

Thirsting over Mr. Sexy is so unlike T’Challa, but give the man a break. He’d traveled far enough, away from the safety of his hometown, to study Business Administration and bear the expectations accosted to him as the heir to such a successful empire. Crushing over a stranger is his only fleeting sense of escape. He doesn’t even want to know Mr. Sexy’s real name, not really. It was simpler that way.

Only it’s not. Because on one seemingly ordinary morning, T’Challa and Mr. Sexy approached the bakery _together_. He was blushing so hard it was almost mortifying.

Lining up to secure his order wasn’t all that calming either. Mr. Sexy was intimidatingly behind him, as if watching his every move. T’Challa’s sixth sense was exploding, hyper-aware and self-conscious of the presence.

"Good morning T’Challa, just the usual?" The cashier, Sakina, interrupts his thoughts, greeting enthusiastically.

T’Challa manages a quick nod. He usually has a couple more formalities to give, but it doesn’t seem to be working today.

He really just wants to get out of there.

So after Sakina serves his hot brew, T’Challa grabs the cup haphazardly. Without careful consideration, he turns and bumps into Mr. Sexy, _nearly_ spilling the drink all-over if not for the other man’s swift hand stilling his arm.

"Woah woah, easy there man…" Mr. Sexy remarks lightly, an amused smile adorning his handsome face.

At this close, he’s even more striking; rough and manly, but clean, alluring. T’Challa feels weird because the voice just oozes appeal, making his body tingle. Even the touch, giddy and electrifying to say the least. T’Challa must’ve been so flustered, he can only stare back in shock.

_Oh. My. Bast._

"Sorry." Came his reply, meekly and breathlessly, leaving the store at once, eyes cast down. He notes their shoulders brushing.

He utterly wants the Earth to submerge him right about now. Walking faster, T’Challa berates himself internally, doesn’t know why he was so nervous. Sure, he had a crush on the man, but he was never that frightened around anyone. T’Challa was smart and stern, had never taken derision in his life.

_Maybe it’s because you thought about him promiscuously last night._

He cringes. If this is what infatuation feels like, he doesn’t want it anymore.

Although at the back of his mind, he thinks how gentle Mr. Sexy’s demeanor was during the action. Out of everything else to happen, he specifically never expected that. _But still_ , T’Challa’s not going back there. He’d have to apologize to Sakina some other time.

For someone studying the importance of diplomacy, he sure does need to internalize it.

* * *

T’Challa was currently frustrated.

Was it the lack of sleep? Caffeine? Sex? He couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly.

He does know how stressful the last week had been, it was nearing the end of the semester after all. He’d just finished a set of examinations, and Microeconomics and Business Communication were all that clouded his mind. Now he aced all of those tests for sure, but T’Challa just needed to _let go_ or something.

Back home, he’d train with his personal instructor, Okoye, on basic self-defense skills. His parents had insisted on intrinsic safety just in case, as his father was quite vulnerable to threat considering their wealth. T’Challa took the training as leisure as much as a responsibility.

But throughout his time in college, he never really wanted to train. T’Challa guesses it’s homesickness. It was consistently not a good thing.

Walking back to the apartment, he tried to brush-aside the nagging feeling of fighting and energy exertion, deciding to just sleep off the restlessness. T’Challa was objectively doing good—until Nakia stopped him on the way.

"Hey T’Challa, are you okay?" She asks, examining him, and dressed so elegantly.

"I look tense don’t I?" He blurts immediately after a sigh, giving in.

Nakia laughs, "If you desire to blow off some steam, have I told you Erik works at that gym across our university? I did tell him about you too."

_Not this again_. "I—"

"Go for it, you’ll thank me later." She intervenes, winking. "Anyway, I do have to go, the Humanities Organization needs a representative, you know duty calls."

"Wha—"

T’Challa could’t even articulate a full word and she’s gone. That woman is always up to something. He swears she’s a secret spy of sorts, gathering viable information on whatever.

Despite himself, T’Challa thinks maybe she’s right. That he needs to loosen up. _That he needs to get laid_. The one man he’d daydreamed about so far was Mr. Sexy, and it’s not like they’re ever going to cross paths again.

With that, T’Challa goes up to his room, but only because he’s changing into workout gear.

Surprisingly, the gym wasn’t very far—which was good, new spots to visit then. Its exterior was pretty impressive too. T’Challa could get used to this. Climbing up the stairs, he turns to the right, nearing a glass door.

He’s greeted by a young woman in yoga-like attire, curly hair held into a loose ponytail.

"Hey I’m Linda, how can I help you?" She welcomes, peering his way momentarily with a warm smile, typing away on a desktop keyboard.

"Hi. Is there any possibility I could utilize your sparring equipment for a quick session?" T’Challa questions kindly.

"Well, you’re at the perfect moment. It’s kind of a slow day since it isn’t the weekend. We can even offer you a trainer if you’d like." Linda suggests, not bothering to look up, busying herself with the computer.

"That’d be pleasant, thank you." T’Challa doesn’t care, he’s just itching to move.

"Can I have your name please?"

"Um…T’Challa."

Linda snaps her head in his direction at once.

He daintily smiles back in confusion. He’s had people curious about his name before, but her reaction was entirely too exaggerated. Though he doesn’t stop to think about the implications.

Just then, a gruff-looking man of towering frame, who looks as if he was a trainer himself, approaches the front desk.

"Hey I’m Winston. I’m free, you need a trainer?" The man, Winston, turns to T’Challa.

" _T’Challa_ needs a sparring partner." Linda inserts, emphasizing his name with a communicative stare, almost as though she’s telling Winston something. T’Challa feels lost.

Winston raises his eyebrows in understanding. "Oh? Actually I think Erik might be the right one for you." He hastily adds with a playful smirk.

_Oh yeah_. T’Challa almost forgot he was here for that reason too. But was he missing something? It looks as though Nakia isn’t the only one rooting for the pair. He thinks everyone should just mind their own business because this was getting creepier.

"Erik’s currently in the main boxing room right there" Linda points. "He’s just fixing-up the equipment but it’ll only take a few." She grins, a tad too brightly.

"Um…Okay, thank you." T’Challa replies with his usual grace despite the muddle, heading to the room. If he does any more waiting though, he believes he’s going to explode.

Behind T’Challa’s back, Winston whispers—"Shit, Stevens wasn’t kidding."—eyeing the man’s back-side.

"Yeah…" Linda trails, staring all the same.

T’Challa enters the room; it’s polished and spacious, better than any other he’d been in outside of their mansion’s private gym.

He belatedly realizes that no one’s here…

Until a clanging of metals alerts his attention.

…or so he thought.

"Hello?"

"Sup, man? I’ll be with you in a bit, just gotta tidy up the equipment here. We wasn’t expecting patrons tonight." A voice echoes out from a small utility room to his left, the half-opened door obstructing a possible view.

He couldn’t see Erik Stevens, but the voice soothes T’Challa, makes him less anxious. His impatience impressively withering away bit by bit.

"Please, take your moment. I have been wanting to visit this place for some time." It wasn’t entirely true, but T’Challa needed to start a conversation.

A noise—the shifting of supplies, fills the room. Erik Stevens responds then. "We sure gotta welcome anyone, a part-time job’s a part-time job fo’ a reason."

T’Challa nods, though Erik Stevens can’t see. He somehow feels a bit guilty not relating to the other man. T’Challa never had to worry about finding a part-time job.

"Well, I’d definitely want to be a regular soon." He shares, hoping to make the chat lighter, looking around the room so as to ponder.

"Now that’s tight. But call me though, you know I’m the best 'round here?"

"Is that so?"

"Ain’t no one gonna tire you off but me, sir." Erik Stevens snickers—as if _flirting_ , like his voice was the sole element needed to convey the act.

"I’ll count on that." T’Challa finds himself saying. It’s fairly surprising, as he might actually be flirting right back. "Truthfully, Nakia brought me here. She uh…recommended you." He adds, kind of likes where this is going.

T’Challa starts to move around, inspecting the space, wasting time. It’s modernly-built, with a frisky, run down vibe. Graffiti and street art ornament some brick walls, while posters of famous sports figures and inspirational quotes in vintage design occupy the opposite. In the middle, sits two boxing rings. On the side, punching bags hang from iron scaffoldings.

"Oh word?" Erik Stevens piques, still in the utility room. "She’s always like that man, don’t bother. We was partners fo’ this project once, wouldn’t stop pairin’ me up with this guy. I’m startin’ to think it’s you."

T’Challa hums at that. He wants Erik Stevens to show himself now, though he doesn’t find it appropriate to follow him inside as well.

"Personally, I don’t find that type of matchmaking to be…effective?"

"I mean, we haven’t tried it have we?"

He picks up the hint of seductiveness. T’Challa cannot find himself to retaliate, but only because he’s smiling, still looking around absentmindedly.

"Ey, but no pressure man." Erik Stevens carries on, almost like apologizing. One thing’s clear though, he sounds like he’s finishing up. _Finally_.

"I wouldn’t mind, to be honest." T’Challa utters back, just as he turns to face the utility door.

And at the same time—

"Yeah? I mean it’s crazy man, Nakia wouldn’t even tell your nam—"

—Erik Stevens steps out, dusting his hands. He looks up…and stops instantly, eyes widening.

T’Challa’s breath hitches. He stills, numbing in shock.

It was Mr. Sexy.

T’Challa remembers how he coined the name, how he didn’t even think much of it. It made everything worse now.

Erik Stevens was Mr. Sexy. The devastatingly handsome mystery man in trendsetter attire T’Challa saw at the bakery _every_ morning. The man who only bought sourdough in fours, and croissants without the chocolate. The man he [redacted] to on particularly cold nights after an exhausting hour of studying.

T’Challa does not know how long they’ve stared at each other. Erik Stevens looks inherently like he recognized him as well. _What?_

_Oh. Oh my_ Bast. It was because of that incident wasn’t it? How could T’Challa forget about that incident. This was the same man he _nearly_ spilled scalding hot coffee on too! All because he couldn’t placate his trouble.

His life eerily feels like a soap opera right now.

"Um…Maybe we could start on your reflexes." Erik Stevens blurts, rubbing the back of his neck in a shy manner.

Needless to say, the sparring session was awkward as heck. Not one of them said a word, nor made eye-contact. Just formal commands and cumbersome head-nods.

T’Challa went back to his apartment feeling pretty much the same way since his coffee machine broke.

* * *

It’s a good freaking thing class is on hold for a while after the examinations, because T’Challa doesn’t want to get out of bed at all.

He still tries to avoid thinking about Mr. Se—Erik Stevens, and the very humiliation brought by T’Challa’s inability to have crushes without freezing on-the-spot upon meeting them.

He has slept for 14 hours straight. Somewhat dramatic, but it worked anyway. Sex is out of the question. Therefore, and after a few grunts of persistent disapproval as the realization hit that he needed to go downstairs, coffee follows suit.

He rides the elevator looking spent, dressed down in an oversized hoodie, out-of-place from his typical crisp. But the sandals remained, as those were a favorite.

T’Challa settles for a cold bottle of double espresso. While twisting the cap, his mind wanders, thinks someone is missing from the routine…

"Hey T’Challa."

Speak of the devil.

T’Challa sighs deeply. "Hey Nak—" _Wait_. In a flash, he turns to her, and the darn woman is already smiling in irritating smugness. He looks at her with custom furrowed brows and the obligatory gaped mouth. It finally clicks then.

"…How?"

"Anyone with functioning eardrums could hear Shuri, even within a two-mile radius and 10 blocks of concrete separating them."

"Right." he slumps, _of course_. Nakia stands contrarily, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms, still complacent. T’Challa still has questions.

"But he kind of knew me, Nakia."

"Well…"

* * *

"I been rusty with pickin’ up cuties lately." Erik shares, too loudly for someone in the library.

Nakia and he were supposed to be working on a paper detailing the maltreatment brought by European colonization. The decision to pair borne out of mutual agreement on the topic. For the most part, Nakia was doing all of the work, highlighting important book passages and scribbling down records. Meanwhile, Erik opts for gossip, legs propped on the chair next to his, twirling a pen. He was currently talking about some 'prince of a man' he often saw at the Bread & Breakfast bakery.

"Mmhmm." Nakia doesn’t bother to listen, focused on the reading.

"This corny as shit but I can’t seem to go near the babe. All pretty and regal, I mean who wears trench coats and turtlenecks 'round here? Yo’ asking to get robbed."

"True." Nakia utters half-heartedly, flipping open a new reference material.

"Mind you 'Kia, no one gets me on edge."

The students around their table give him condescending looks, scowling at his indiscipline. Erik just winks back like the asshole that he was, proving the point.

"Fuck, he even got a sexy-ass name. Heard it from the cashier."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, _T’Challa?_ Shit’s exotic. Them motherfuckers at the gym keep teasin’ me like middle-schoolers cause I found out."

Nakia finally raises her head, stares him down suspiciously. "Hmm, tell me more."

About 15 minutes of rabid story-telling occupied the time. T’Challa’s doe-eyes, his hands, his posture, his _ass_. Nakia cuts him off, insists on setting Erik up with a secret man, thinks he’s too far gone; as having a crush was so unlike the heart-breaker that was Erik Stevens.

"Nah, don’t need all that. I promised my daddy, no distractions."

"I just think you need to get laid." She replies quickly, getting up and collecting the books. "By the way, let’s continue tomorrow."

Nakia isn’t one to pry on other people’s business. But if duty calls, what’s stopping her? Besides, this was just too much fun.

T’Challa’s out of words, doesn’t know how to feel being called 'pretty' and 'asking to get robbed' in the same breath. The bottle in his hands had to be lukewarm at most.

"That drink looks futile T’Challa, you might need to get a new one. Perhaps hot and brewed?"

And so T’Challa found himself walking back to the local bakery by the street’s corner, yet again after so many weeks of avoidance.

T’Challa can be a cocky bastard when he wants to, when he knows he can get what he desires. A little bit of coaxing is needed, but it gets around. Your typical spoiled-brat in nature.

So unlike the last time, T’Challa feels pleased, relaxed. In a turn of events, he ditches the need for coffee, nearing the bakery’s glass compartment of assorted bread.

Exactly then, Mr. Sexy— _Erik Stevens_ , settles beside him, hands stuffed in that denim-jacket pocket, right in time, as if they both calculated when the other’s precisely going in.

"So…" Erik starts.

"Hmm?"

They’re still staring at the bread.

"Wanna grab breakfast? I know a place."

"Like an actual breakfast?"

"Yeah, like an actual breakfast."

Seems all that hunger was worth it.


End file.
